


Not Yet

by PerpetuaTheBrave (Teanjel)



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, POV Quirrel, Quirrel doesn't remember the hollow knight, Temple of the Black Egg, but he has a strong sense of deja vu, but narrowly avoided, idk what else to tag as usual, the hollow knight ending, the knight is not mute, tragic ending averted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-29 04:18:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16256516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teanjel/pseuds/PerpetuaTheBrave
Summary: Quirrel doesn’t remember what’s in the black temple. He’s fairly certain he doesn’t want to remember. But heissure that if the little knight goes in, he will never see his friend again. There has to be another way, right?





	Not Yet

**Author's Note:**

> I still haven't finished the game, but Quirrel doesn't know exactly what's going on, either, so that should work...

So this was Dirtmouth. The town the mapmaker had mentioned. What was his name again? Cornifer. That was it. That was a new name. He shouldn't be forgetting new things, should he? But Quirrel was old, older than he'd realized. Maybe this was normal. Quirrel sighed. Missing memories wasn't particularly worrisome until you knew the gaps existed. Then there would always be the questions 'how much?' and 'was it important?'

But he'd been reassured that he remembered exactly what he needed to. He'd played his part, served his lady until her end, and the missing pieces had not hindered him. Perhaps they had helped, even. Had Quirrel chosen to leave the past behind? He wasn't sure.

He was sure, however, that the wandering mapmaker (Cornifer!) had promised him a warm welcome and a meal should he ever make his way to the fading town. It seemed he had come at a bad time, however. The lights were covered, and no one was on the street. They must be sleeping. He'd come back later. But a movement on the bench caught his eye. A jangling sound like coins sliding past each other. A small form bent over some project. It was his friend, that little knight with the serious demeanor who’d followed him all over Hallownest. Quirrel stepped closer to greet him, and the knight jumped at the sound, spilling a bag of something onto the cobblestones.

“Sorry, friend.” Quirrel bent to help him pick up whatever he’d scattered.

Charms, he realized. Quirrel had a few. Using them was habit, their shape and purpose familiar to him. He no longer remembered where they came from, though he was sure at least one had been a gift. His little friend had collected a lot. Strange shapes, _smells,_ even. A few looked ancient. Well. His friend was full of surprises. Quirrel handed over the bag and the knight took it back without quite looking at him. He was staring past Quirrel, into the graveyard at the edge of the town. And… was he trembling, just a little?

“Friend. Are you all right?”

“No.”

You didn’t hear his voice much. It was soft and clear, like footsteps in a quiet cavern. And young. Quirrel had judged him by his nail and uncanny ability to find his in the most dangerous or forgotten places. Some of the most dangerous creatures in Hallownest were smaller than you’d expect. But the knight’s voice was almost a child’s voice. _A child? To wander so far alone…_ Quirrel felt suddenly protective, a quiet determination stronger by some half-recollection.

“Shall I come with you?”

The knight nodded.

 

He led the way to an old well and dropped down the shaft into the Crossroads below, waiting at the bottom for Quirrel. Sturdy little fellow. Quirrel took a deep breath and began to climb down the chain, link by link, the orange haze growing thicker as he descended.

He’d avoided the crossroads since infection had spread again. It was the sensible thing to do, of course, but Quirrel wasn’t afraid of infection. Not exactly. He had the feeling if he’d been meant to catch the disease it would’ve happened long ago. But there was some memory tied up with it he didn’t think he wanted to find again. He’d lost friends, probably. And yet… the was something else, another kind of impression. As if _he’d_ made some mistake it would be better not to remember.

And the temple was covered in it. Filled with it. Glowing like the eyes of some great infected beast. Memory tugged at his mind again, like snatches of a nightmare, and some other part of Quirrel’s mind forced it out of reach again. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and stepped into the temple after his friend.

Quirrel gasped. The great egg was gone, broken in pieces on the floor. In its place yawned the opening to a dark passageway.

“Did you…go in there?”

The knight shook his head and tugged at the charms he’d pinned to his cloak. Ah. Quirrel didn’t blame him for taking time to prepare with that gaping hole in front of him. That hole. When he’d come here before the temple had been unfamiliar, an intriguing mystery, but with the egg gone… He knew this place. Knew, at least, that he was not supposed to step into that passage. Something terrible was at the end of it, an idea that repelled him like a hot fire. This was as far as he could follow.

 

His friend still hesitated, staring into the dark. He’d pulled a map out of his bag and was bending it back and forth. “Do you hear them? The crying?”

Quirrel strained to listen for a sound in the temple around them, but the knight pushed his chin with a tiny, cold hand to look down at the paper he was holding. It was a detailed drawing of a bug. A grub-child. Quirrel couldn’t recall seeing a single one since he had returned to Hallownest, but the kind was familiar to him if not the individual. And this _was_ an individual, he was certain – specific details drawn with meticulous accuracy. No, it wasn’t a portrait, looking closer. Scribbled notes with a fine quill looked like a library entry, though the handwriting was not Monomon’s.

Quirrel traced the script with a finger. “Who?”

“He… he _takes_ them.” The knight sounded angry, and maybe a little bolder because of his anger, pinching the page until it tore. “All over, trapped in glass.”

He pulled out another sheet, a map of Hallownest drawn with the same pen, with dozens of locations marked. Some of them were scribbled out with a second quill.

“Can you –” The knight began. “There are twelve left. I – I don’t think I…”

Quirrel wasn’t sure what he meant, but he didn’t like the tone of the request. It was too final. And this place was _wrong._ He put a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Of course you will. We’ll do this together.”

They were the wrong words, and Quirrel knew it as soon as he said them. The knight shrugged off his hand and pushed the map toward him, shaking his head.

“Vessel, what are you doing?”

The words slipped out almost unbidden. _Vessel._ Where had that come from? _Another time. A name for someone else._

“I don’t know. What I was meant for.”

The knight was walking toward the dark passage, and Quirrel found himself speechless. He wanted to protest, suggest some other solution, without exactly being sure what he needed to prevent. Some visceral instinct told him _no. Not again._ He didn't remember the arguments. But he remembered the anger in a sudden rush. He jumped ahead of the knight and stood in his path, blocking the entrance with his body. But before Quirrel could speak, or even register what was happening, the knight sprung at him with startling speed, and –

Cold.

Dark.

It was less like having the breath knocked out of him than being briefly filled with something else. Something empty and heavy and thoughtless. And it was only for an instant. Quirrel stood blinking in the same place, but heard footsteps grow softer behind him. Had his friend leapt… _through_ him?

However he’d done it, the knight was past him. Behind him. In the temple. Quirrel turned around. Really looked for the first time. A path through the dark. Blinding white and swinging shadows. An orange glow in the shape of a door. And a tiny knight walking toward it.

Quirrel stepped through the opening.

 

It was like walking against the wind. Something about the space repelled him. Something beyond infected air and strange lights and terrible memory. He had never been here before. He was never meant to be here. Quirrel felt for a nail that wasn’t there. It was like standing at the crest of Crystal Peak. Like ducking through lumaflies just beginning to spark.

_Foot by foot. Keep walking. You must. The only chance._

He was close now. Too close. The temple was hazy and dark.

A stone etched in white.

Some message. But they were words he shouldn't read. They were not meant for him. This place was not meant for him.

A bench.

The knight.

He sat on the bench, shaking and bent.

Quirrel’s voice caught in his throat. What could he do, standing in this place? He did not understand. He could not stay. He could not leave his friend. So he did the only thing he could think of. Quirrel reached out and picked up the knight. He turned his back on the orange glow, and walked out of the temple.

He was so light. Lighter than Quirrel expected. Like a hollow shell. He was limp in Quirrel’s arms, but at the entrance of the passage he stirred. Mumbled.

“Couldn't do it…not strong enough.”

Quirrel’s confidence dropped out of him. What had he done? Why had he been so sure? He couldn’t go back. Couldn’t set the knight down. He didn’t seem like he would be able to stand.

Quirrel didn’t know what to do, so he carried the knight out of the temple. Kept walking. Walked without really seeing, wondering numbly why nothing attacked him. Through an archway, out of the shadows. Light and leaves. A glimmer of acid. Greenpath. He’d loved the bright colors the first time he’d come here (the first time he could recall, anyway). But now it reminded Quirrel of the Archive. He continued up. 

Between etched stones and overgrown columns, he found a bench. The knight was sleeping now, a deep, silent sleep. Quirrel sat on the bench and slept, too. He was tired. Tired of trying to remember. Tired of wondering if he should.

 

Quirrel woke refreshed to the soft flutter of maskflies. He sat for a moment, not really thinking, content to let the sounds and smells of the glade bring to mind vague memories of peace. The knight moved beside him at last, glancing at his surroundings, then looking up at his companion.

“Dreaming, friend?” Quirrel asked.

“No.” The knight shook his head. “It was nice.”

They sat for another moment in silence. Then the knight stood on the bench next to Quirrel, stretching out his empty hand as if he held a nail. A familiar motion Quirrel had seen many times before. Oddly comforting to see again after…

Quirrel’s thoughts returned to what he had done. _Comforting…_ Was that his motivation? Had he intervened purely for his own comfort? Kept his friend back from his purpose merely to enjoy his company again, and never mind the rest of Hallownest? He knew nothing of the knight’s mission beyond the breaking of a single seal, and Monomon’s final wish. And yet he had argued with him. Stopped him. Picked him up and carried him away from what he had decided to do.

“No. You were right. She said there would be a choice.” The knight’s words startled Quirrel from his thoughts.

Or rather, answered them. He must have spoken something aloud. No… his expression must have given away his doubts.

“Thank you.” The knight took a step back and raised his hands above his head. Something shimmered in the air around him. And he was gone.

Quirrel stared at the empty place on the bench next to him. There was always another wonder, wasn’t there? Could he really find himself so surprised when his friend had already done so many otherworldly things? The story was beyond him now. However he’d influenced it. Whatever wheels of the world he’d moved with a tiny hand. The knight had thanked him. He was glad of the reassurance.

Quirrel rose from the bench and began to walk again towards Dirtmouth. Perhaps Cornifer and his wife would invite him for breakfast.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, this was lovely to write. Large portions of it wrote themselves, which hasn't really happened for me for a year or so. (I'm back! I'm loving writing! Hooray!) I was _not_ expecting it to be almost 2,000 words, or Quirrel to get so far into the temple! 
> 
> I bet getting shadow-dashed through feels really weird. And Quirrel's just used to seeing the knight waving around an invisible dream nail by now, he's got no idea...


End file.
